Deploration of Spring
by Betsy Blair

To dangle a cherry from the rod-
To reach for a hand as they cut you to a stump-

A bulb remains a bulb, tubular,
growing tall from the ground as a rough appendage.
Pulled from the ground like that,
An Easter hat, the curls and intricacies.

As I walked through this, the new world
passing a small child, the blonde curls
Escaping from her disguise as the devil.
Last summer’s coal is soaked with rain, a black patch
over seedlings.

A springer spaniel rolls, trusting
I only trust
the Musique of the pink gourd stomach,
its tumorous chambers.

The birds are huge, aren’t they?
I carry a cherry the size of a ball.
I slip into the stocking of my costume.
My head, one large teardrop.

Now, directionless on the new wing of spring
over a small splash hitting the water.
Goodbye,nymphs of dreams!
Hello, old crone of the cement fountain.

The background was dark.
The colors softly luminous-

I stop to rest and hold
my face in my hands.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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